


Letters of Transit

by Nightdog_Barks



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe, Friendship, Gen, Mystery, Postcards, Quantum Mechanics, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 21:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11906754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightdog_Barks/pseuds/Nightdog_Barks
Summary: NOT A NEW STORY.This fic was first posted at  on September 28th, 2006.  It got skipped, somehow, when I posted my collected stories to AO3.  So here it is again, seeing the light of day, on its way to Archive. One typo has been corrected; otherwise, the text is unchanged. :-)TITLE:Letters of TransitAUTHOR:Nightdog_barksPAIRING:House, WilsonRATING:PG-13WARNINGS:None.  No spoilers, no nothing.  It's just a story.SUMMARY:Wilson is Wilson, no matter where or when.DISCLAIMER:Don't own 'em.  Never will.AUTHOR NOTES:THIS IS NOT A NEW STORY.  Special thanks to Perspi for the Summary and Bironic for the last-minute read-through.BETA:  Silverjackal,who saw the original idea and wanted me to write it months ago.





	Letters of Transit

**_Letters of Transit_ **

_ The First Card _

 

House turned the postcard over in his hands and looked at the front again. A cheery legend in the upper left corner -- _"Greetings from Cape Town!"_ \-- superimposed over a vibrant color photo of Table Mountain. He flipped it back over and looked at the scrawled message again, at the familiar signature. _"House, South Africa is beautiful. Told you you should've come with. Love, Wilson."_ A pair of stamps; kingfishers, gazing out at him with bright black eyes. A smudged postmark. House squinted to read the date. Four weeks ago.

The postcard had been delivered with the morning mail, and he briefly imagined Cameron reading it, her eyes widening at the signoff. It explained the odd look she'd given him when she had dumped the mail on his desk.

He tried to remember where Wilson had been four weeks ago ... had the man been gone and he'd not even noticed? He didn't think such a thing was possible, but he _did_ get distracted sometimes. There was one way to find out. He levered himself out of his office chair and hobbled next door.

************

"Jimmy!" He pushed the door open and had the satisfaction of seeing his friend jump.

Wilson rolled his eyes. "House. You are aware that some people do knock before entering?"

"Not 'some people', Jimmy. Where were you four weeks ago?"

Wilson regarded him steadily for a moment, then sighed as he leaned forward and snagged his appointment book. Sometimes it was just easier to answer House's questions and ignore whatever mad inspiration lurked behind them.

"Any particular date, or is this a random search?" he asked, paging backwards through the thick book.

"Last week of August." 

"Busy week," Wilson mumbled, settling on the correct schedule. The pages were lined and divided into squares, with carefully precise blue writing marking his meetings, consults, and patient notes. House smiled inwardly -- the buttoned-down Wilson, controlled and composed, inhabited those pages.

Wilson squinted at his own handwriting. "August 28th. Budget meeting, planning committee, budget meeting, patient, you, patient --"

"You write me into your daily schedule?" House filed that away as ammunition for future torment.

Wilson shifted uncomfortably in his desk chair. "Well, sometimes." He looked back down at his schedule book. "August 29th. Patient, board meeting --"

"Okay, enough," House interrupted. This was boring. He tossed the postcard on Wilson's desk and took a seat in the chair in front of it. He watched as Wilson picked the card up gingerly and read the front and back. 

Wilson's brows furrowed; he looked up at House with questioning eyes.

"I've never been to South Africa," he said. "The last foreign conference I went to was in London, last year."

Sliding open the top desk drawer, he fished a small key from the paper clip compartment of the organizer tray and used it to unlock a separate, smaller drawer. He pulled out a sturdy blue booklet and pushed it across to House. "See for yourself, Holmes."

The letters on the front of the booklet were stamped in gold: _PASSPORT United States of America._ The eagle in the center gazed stoically at the olive branch clasped in its right talons. House believed Wilson but flipped through the booklet anyway, pausing to smirk at the typically awful passport photo. Montreal, Vancouver, Buenos Aires, Rome ... and in the middle, the last stamp for London in dark blue ink. The rest of the pages were blank.

"So what's this?" House asked, gesturing towards the South African postcard.

Wilson shrugged. "A joke? An elaborate one, to be sure, but a joke. It looks like my handwriting, but it can't be." He turned the card over so the written side was up. "Besides, it says ... uh ..."

"I saw what it said." 

"So this is the end of this conversation?"

"Yeah."

And it was, until the next week when the next postcard came.

* * *

_ The Second Card _

House frowned, brows drawing close together and his mouth tightening in a thin, straight line. He looked up again, glancing out through the glass walls of his office. Wilson was still out there in the hallway, talking to one of the residents and pointing at notations on a patient's chart. If he felt House's eyes on him, he didn't show it.

House dropped his gaze back to his desk. The object of his puzzlement was still there. He'd actually wondered for just a moment if it would disappear if he took his eyes off it.

The postcard showed a Mediterranean beach, all sun and sand, umbrellas like large colorful mushrooms with happy tourists lounging beneath. He turned it over and read the message again. _House -- Spain is even better than South Africa! Miss you and wish you were here. Love, Wilson._ All in Wilson's left-handed, butchered scrawl. He rechecked the postmark -- like the first, it was from four weeks ago. Archimedes, regarding him from the postage stamp, seemed to be saying, _Well? Solve the equation!_

This couldn't be a joke, as Jimmy had suggested last week. One postcard, perhaps ... but two? What was going on? A game like this had to be well-planned out, far in advance. The sheer logistics that were involved -- 

"Lunch?" Wilson poked his head in House's office. House hastily slid the new card under some papers.

"Sure, just give me a minute," he replied. Wilson nodded and ducked back out.

House frowned again. He'd _looked_ completely innocent -- but then Wilson _always_ looked innocent. Even caught red-handed in prank, escapade, or actual affair, those high cheekbones and youthful face had often been enough to absolve him of any guilt. House felt certain all of the ex-Mrs. Wilsons would testify to that. 

He allowed himself to briefly consider other suspects -- his Fellows, an old college friend -- but dismissed them immediately. No. This was interesting. This was tricky. This had _depth._ This had the fingerprints of James Wilson all over it. 

Sighing, he used his cane as a brace and pushed himself up from the chair. He'd let this rest for a while, watch his friend carefully. Better right now to lie back and observe.

This plan worked perfectly until the next week, when the third postcard arrived.

* * *

_ The Third Card _

Not caring at all how it looked, House threw open the door to Wilson's office and stalked in. The door swung back, slamming hard against the wall, and the office's occupant flinched in his chair, startled. 

"Care to explain?" House asked grimly. 

"I ... what? Explain what?"

"You _know_ what," House snarled, and tossed three postcards onto Wilson's desk. "Three weeks ago, you said this must be some elaborate joke. I'll ask now: what kind of joke is this? Because whatever it is, it's not funny anymore."

Wilson put down his pen and leaned back, eying House warily. He picked up the cards and glanced at each one, then started inspecting them in earnest.

He'd seen the first one, from South Africa, so he discarded it immediately. He read the second, from Spain, and his eyebrows rose. Then he looked at the third, and his mouth fell open.

An exterior photo of ancient stone walls. A printed identification across the top of the card. _The Great Charles University, Prague._ Blue sky. Students and tourists milling about in the university square. He turned the postcard over. More printing, a description in tourist-speak. _Since 1348, the Holy Roman Emperor Charles IV --_ Wilson stopped reading. A Czech stamp, with a pair of odd-looking ... fox? cubs. He glanced up at House. Blue eyes glared into his. Wilson looked back down at the card.

Blue ink from a gel-tip pen -- the type he favored. What appeared to be his own handwriting, looping across the left side of the card. He read the message, a feeling of deep dread and trepidation growing as he did so.

_House -- Prague is amazing! Went to Josefov (old Jewish Quarter) yesterday and thought I saw my grandmother, but it turned out to be the Golem. Still wishing you were with me. Why won't you answer my calls? Love, Wilson._

With hands that shook only slightly, he checked the postmarks of all three cards. Six weeks, five weeks ... three weeks.

He carefully put the cards back down on the desktop and leaned back in his chair.

"There ... must be some explanation," he said.

"The _explanation_ is that this joke has gone far enough," House said. "How'd you manage it? You have friends in these countries? Professional colleagues? People willing to go along? Don't get me wrong -- this is original and interesting on some level, but it's old now. So how'd you do it? I really want to know." The last words were spoken in House's own trademark sarcasm, made all the more biting by its soft tone.

Wilson's head was spinning as he stared at the three cards. The truth was the only option. He looked at House, and the honesty and hurt in his dark eyes was obvious.

"If this is a joke," he said, his voice low and intense, "it's not mine."

House just looked at him. He gathered up the cards with one rough sweep of his hand, then eased himself up out of the chair and limped out.

Back in his own office, House started to throw the postcards in the wastebasket. He hesitated. Why _was_ he pissed off? Was it because he couldn't solve this puzzle without Wilson, and Wilson wasn't playing? Because this joke topped every possible stunt he himself had ever pulled in his entire life? Because every card ended with "Love, --"?

 _Stop,_ he thought. _Don't go there._ He sighed, and instead of throwing the cards away, slipped them into a file folder. He'd think about this later. Later was good.

And that was where matters stood until the next week, when the fourth postcard put everything in a strange new light, and raised many more questions than it answered.

* * *

_ The Fourth Card _

While Gregory House was a _suspicious_ man by nature, he had never been a _superstitious_ man. No avoiding black cats, no giving a wide berth to ladders, no lucky pennies or rabbit's feet. Those were crutches, canes for minds less logical than his. He already had a cane; there was no need for another.

Until now. A fourth postcard lay on his desk, daring him to turn it over and read whatever scribbles were on the other side. Cameron had given him a _particularly_ odd look this time as she had brought in the afternoon mail. 

The front of the card showed the Brandenburg Gate; House recognized it immediately. He'd seen it often enough as a military brat in West Berlin. _"Herzlich willkommen in Deutschland!"_ was the logo above it in black, red, and gold. _Yeah, you bet,_ House thought, _springtime for Hitler and all that._

He found himself hesitant to flip the card. Wilson had sworn he didn't know what was going on -- the problem was, he had trouble _reading_ Wilson. His friend had lied to him before, straight-faced and with those brown eyes overflowing with sincerity -- and he hadn't been able to tell.

Taking a deep breath, he turned the card over and quickly scanned the familiar handwriting.

 _"Shit,"_ he breathed.

************

Wilson stared at the card, holding it carefully by one corner as if afraid it might bite him.

"You talked to Cameron?"

House nodded. "She thought I was crazy, but what else is new? She doesn't know anything about it -- says she's never spoken to you long distance, much less from Germany."

"Well, she hasn't," Wilson mumbled, and read the scrawled writing on the card for the third time.

_House -- Berlin is beautiful but full of ghosts. Many still wearing dosimeters -- they pinned one on me at airport. What's with blocking my email address? Cameron said you're throwing things. Told you I was sorry -- we were drunk & thought I saw something I guess wasn't there. Please don't shut me out. Love, Wilson._

He dropped the card on his desk.

"Heisenberg," he said.

House looked up from where he'd been lightly tapping his cane on the floor. "What?"

Wilson waved his hand at the card. "The stamp. It's Werner Heisenberg."

"Very funny, Wilson," House muttered. 

Wilson leaned back in his chair. "House, I've said, it's --"

"Not you. I know." House's gaze was fixed on the card. He picked it back up. "I believe you." Ignoring Wilson's look of relief, he stretched his legs and leaned back in his own chair. "Involving Cameron like this is a non sequitur -- it makes no sense unless this is a real exchange, a real postcard."

The office was silent, the only noise the ambient hum of the hospital corridor outside the closed door.

"And if this is a real postcard, that leaves us with ... " He paused for a long moment, then shook his head. Wilson looked at him, questioning.

"A differential that seems -- impossible." House stood and left the office, closing the door quietly behind him.

* * *

_ The Fifth Card _

House lay on his back in bed, shoulders supported by a pair of pillows, thinking about doors. Doors opening. Doors closing. Apertures. Exits. Entrances. 

Every now and then he sipped from a glass of single malt. An old Philip Glass CD on eternal repeat played in the den, the minimalist tones drifting into the bedroom. The fifth postcard, the one that shouldn't exist, rested on his stomach, and every now and then he picked it up and looked at it. His mind chased itself in circles every time he did.

He'd started sorting his own mail at the hospital, drawing surprised looks from both Cameron and the mail room crew. It was a good thing he had; this card would've raised a lot of questions, not to mention eyebrows, if anyone had seen it and recognized it for what it was.

Which of course was the question: what was it?

He took another swallow of his drink and picked up the card. The front of the card was divided in two, with a Capitol dome on the left side; the right was subdivided into smaller squares, each containing one photo -- a cowboy boot, spurs, a ten-gallon hat, a field of blue flowers ... he regarded the pictures calmly. He'd been looking at them for the last three hours.

The music grew more insistent, the composer's trademark repetition of evolving piano notes and horns rising. He turned the card over. 

A red, white, and blue stamp. The now-familiar blue scribbles, cramped and spidery this time to get all the words in. He read the message again.

_House -- folks are really nice here and this is a great town. Presenting that new Child Psych paper tomorrow. Still wish you were here, even though you're not answering my calls or emails. Told you I'm sorry. What more will it take? Heading straight for Japan in a few days so won't be back to Princeton yet. I'm sorry -- I really miss you. Love, Wilson._

His eyes were drawn back to the description at the top, in tiny printed script.

_Largely rebuilt after the War of Northern Aggression ended in 1863, the capital of Austin is home today to more than 700,000 citizens ..._

House tipped the glass for another sip. He hadn't shown this card to Wilson yet. His Wilson. That's how he had to think of him now -- his Wilson, Head of Oncology, because apparently this other Wilson was a psychologist. Or a psychiatrist. Which was what he probably really needed right about now.

He looked at the card again. A door was open somewhere, and a breeze was blowing through. For some reason the thought didn't really frighten him, although it probably should have. He'd read all the science fiction he could get his hands on as a kid; Ray Bradbury, Jack Finney, Edgar Rice Burroughs' Barsoom stories. In his present job he was used to the oddest diagnosis often being the correct one.

Who was this Wilson? Was his first name James too? How many failed marriages had he had -- or had he ever been married? Did he look like his Wilson? The thoughts ran in circles in his head, like a dog chasing its tail. There was no resolution.

He laid the postcard down on his stomach again, written-side up. The stamp was the lone bright spot. A single star, with the legend underneath: _Republic of Texas._

* * *

_ The Sixth Card _

"This is insane," Wilson said. He looked up from the five postcards that were fanned out across his desk. _"You're_ insane."

"Fine. I'm insane. Let's see you come up with a better explanation." House lounged comfortably in the nearby office chair and waited.

Wilson stared down at the postcards again, as if by the intensity of his gaze he could force them to give up their secrets. "It's what I first said. A joke. Someone's crazy idea of an incredibly elaborate joke."

House shook his head. _"Too_ elaborate," he said. "Besides, who do we know that's clever enough to pull off something like this?" He caught Wilson's narrowed glance. "Aside from me, of course," he quickly amended.

Wilson sighed. "And you think this theory of an ... alternate universe makes more sense."

"It's actually the simplest explanation, Jimmy. And you know what Occam said about simple explanations."

"Yeah, and he probably cut himself shaving all the time. It's still insane," Wilson mumbled.

"No more insane than any other theory, or anything you or I see on the nightly news," House replied calmly. "And by the way, this came today."

He tossed another postcard on the desk. Wilson groaned. "Do I _want_ to see this?" he asked. House leaned back in his chair, his eyes dark and unreadable.

Wilson looked at the front of the card for awhile without touching it. A night-time shot. A structure that bore more than a passing resemblance to the Eiffel Tower. Printed across the top of the card were the words _"Visit the Heart of the Empire! See Tokyo Tower!"_ He glanced up at House, who was watching him quietly. He flipped the card over.

An anime-style stamp showed a brown-eyed boy peeking out from behind a leaf or a curtain. The postmark bore Western numbers and indicated the card had been mailed two weeks ago. And the message on the card ...

_House -- flight took long way round to avoid rebel missiles in Hawaii. Don't know what to say or do. Miss you & feel terrible. Please respond, even if it's just to tell me to go away. If you want to send something Cuddy has hotel address or can send to Amex office 2-5-1 Kyobashi, Chou-ku. Love (sometimes not sure why), Wilson._

Wilson stared at the card. There seemed to be some dust in the room, or too much light, and he swiped at his eyes. 

"Uh," he said.

House leaned forward and took the card from him, his movements surprisingly gentle.

"Let me guess," Wilson finally said. "Cuddy didn't have a clue as to what hotel --"

"I didn't bother asking her," House cut him off. "It's beyond that."

Wilson looked at the card in his friend's hand.

 _"Is_ there an American Express office in Chou-ku?" 

House nodded.

"You're not thinking about ... _doing_ something, are you?"

House looked at him. "Why not?" he asked, genuine curiosity in his voice.

"Because -- we don't know anything about this? Who these people are? What they've done? What if this other Wilson is a real bastard? What if the other House doesn't _want_ to see him again? Ever?" Wilson waved his hands in the air, in that nervous _Wilson_ way he had. "House, _these people aren't us!"_

"I know that," House said quietly.

"So ... what are you going to do?"

"I don't know."

* * *

_ The Seventh Card _

House was drunk, drunker than he'd been in a long time. 

He knew this because Dave Brubeck was sitting at his piano, gazing at him with sad, dark eyes. His hands were just lifting from the ebony and ivory keys as the last notes of _Take Five_ echoed in the apartment. Brubeck smiled at him and gently rubbed his hands together as if they needed warming. 

"House?" Brubeck's voice sounded vaguely like Wilson's -- soft and concerned. Always concerned. "What are you going to do?"

House considered the question for quite a while. 

"I don't know," he said at last. "Stop asking." He rested his head against the back of the sofa and watched the ceiling spin in lazy circles.

Brubeck shrugged and looked away as his hands descended to the piano again. "Sorry," he said. "Not my problem anyway. Yours."

"His," House corrected.

The pianist smiled. It was an easy, open smile, and suddenly in the dim lamplight Brubeck looked a whole lot more like Wilson. "Are you sure?" he asked, and slipped into the opening bars of _Blue Rondo a La Turk._

The darkness seemed to press close round, and House fell asleep.

************

House opened his eyes.

It was very late, or very early, and he'd been dreaming -- something about Wilson and jazz, and a memory of music drifting like smoke through his hands. His leg ached, and he took a Vicodin, washing it down with a glass of stale water from the end table.

Shifting into a more comfortable position, he looked down at the seven postcards fanned out across the coffee table. Wilson was correct -- he had no right to interfere, to try and influence these people's lives. Their lives were not his, and neither was their world.

But what kind of world was it? Who was this Wilson? He turned each card over, exposing the handwritten sides one by one. 

_Went to Josefov (old Jewish Quarter) yesterday and thought I saw my grandmother, but it turned out to be the Golem._ Atypical humor from Wilson -- he didn't usually joke about his heritage. That was House's job. He sat for a moment, then shook his head at himself. "Not my Wilson," he muttered. "Who knows what this Wilson thinks is funny?" _You do,_ another part of his mind whispered, and he shook his head again.

_Berlin is beautiful but full of ghosts. Many still wearing dosimeters -- they pinned one on me at airport._

_Largely rebuilt after the War of Northern Aggression ended in 1863, the capital of Austin is home today to more than 700,000 citizens ..._

_Flight took long way round to avoid rebel missiles in Hawaii so just got here._

House closed his eyes for a moment. There were too many paths here, too many possibilities, and hardly any of them were very good.

He picked up the seventh card, the one that had arrived today. The one he hadn't shown Wilson.

The stamp was innocuous enough -- a flowering bonsai, painstakingly trained to grow in controlled, composed angles, even as its branches still reached for the light. The front of the card depicted Hokusai's classic _Great Wave of Kanagawa,_ the unstoppable force of tidal energy rearing up, drowning all in its path, with Mount Fuji in the background, a silent witness to the destruction.

He turned the card back over, the blue-ink chicken scratches as familiar to him as his own right-handed scrawl.

_House -- all flights cancelled for week, Emperor's order. Worries over China/India. Pissed at Cuddy for sending me on this glorified USO tour. Good conferences but too long away. I'm sorry, House. Never wanted it to be like this & it's all my fault. I'll see you around the hospital -- won't bother you again. ~~Always love you.~~ Wilson._

House felt his breath stop in his throat. Behind him, the CD player hiccuped and skipped, and suddenly began playing. The low rumble of drums filled the apartment like far-off thunder.

What had this Wilson done?

He read through all the cards again, and found the half-remembered line on the fourth card, the one from an apparently radioactive Berlin: 

_We were drunk & thought I saw something I guess wasn't there. _

House was no fool. He'd seen the way Wilson looked at him sometimes -- amused, warm, constant, even ... affectionate? Wilson had always glanced quickly away when House would turn towards him.

Perhaps this Wilson hadn't looked away. And if Wilson hadn't looked away, had actually --

It struck him then, with sickening clarity -- full knowledge of what had happened. A drunken look, drunken words, that once uttered, couldn't be unsaid ... and his other self hadn't known what to do. Had pushed Wilson away. Shut him out. He could almost see the hurt in Wilson's eyes, feel the horribly awkward silence. It was as if he'd been there, himself. He sat for a moment, hardly breathing. The corners of the apartment were very dark.

A car horn sounded suddenly out in the street, breaking the spell. He blinked, and pushed the lingering vision away.

 _Not my Wilson,_ House thought. _Not my world._

Except it was his Wilson. Wilson was Wilson, no matter where or when.

_Not my place to interfere._

The hint of a smile came and went. When had that ever stopped him? 

He stood suddenly, limped painfully to the desk in the corner, and pulled out a sheet of clean notepaper and an envelope. Besides, who knew if this would work? There was no way of telling if the conduit went both ways. 

_Then why are you doing it?_

That stopped him, but just for a moment, and his next thought was spoken aloud to the empty room. 

"Because these people deserve a chance, even if I have to force it on them."

Clicking open a ballpoint pen, he began to write.

* * *

_ The Eighth Card, Plus A Wild Trump _

No postcard came the next week, or the week after that. After a while House stopped sorting his own mail, and the puzzle receded into a remote corner of his mind. He took it out on occasion and poked at it, wondering if his curiosity would ever be satisfied. 

The answer didn't present itself until mid-November, when Cameron dumped his morning deliveries onto his desk. It wasn't until he realized she was still standing there that he looked up. She was glaring at him.

"I thought you two had stopped this stupid game," she said, and turned on her heel. He watched her go and let his gaze drift down to the stack of mail.

There was a postcard on top.

He looked at it for a long moment, feeling an odd apprehension in his throat. He reached for it, slowly, and picked it up.

Whitewashed houses on a terraced mountainside, leading down to an impossibly blue ocean. Even though he knew it was just a photograph on a flat piece of cardboard, a sense of utter peace permeated the scene. Something stirred in his chest, and he turned the card over.

The familiar handwriting, still the messy scrawl wandering over the surface of the card. No salutation this time. 

_House persuaded Cuddy to give us both time off (told her my conference trip too stressful); came to Santorini so he can practice Greek. That's MY House, of course. Don't know how any of this happened & don't pretend to understand. All I can say is you seem an awful lot like my House, so I'll end this with ... Love, Wilson. _

House looked at the stamp in the upper right corner. A ship with eyes, sailing over a tranquil sea. The _Argos_ , off to discover new worlds, new adventures.

He found himself having to rub his own eyes, warding off a sudden moisture. Allergies ... hay fever acting up again. Reaching for his cane, he pulled himself out of his chair and headed for the office next door, shouting "Hey! Wilson! You'll never guess what I just got!"

And that should have been the end. But it wasn't.

************

The long Thanksgiving weekend had arrived, and House was leaving early. Wilson had promised to cook a real Thanksgiving dinner if House supplied the ingredients, and he wanted to get a head start at the store.

Chase had brought the mail that day, and House simply swept it into his backpack to look at later. With Wilson's grocery list and cane in one hand and his motorcycle helmet in the other, he was out the door before any new patients could distract him.

The store was busy but manageable; he'd left early enough to miss the real beginning of the holiday rush. At the checkout, the stockboy carefully packed the groceries into a sturdy cardboard box; he followed a limping House out to the bike in the "handicapped" parking spot and tied it securely to the back of the seat.

At home he carried the box into the kitchen, balancing it on one hip. It was heavy; he grunted with the effort, and when he finally set it on the kitchen table, his suddenly freed left arm seemed to float up of its own accord. He put the cold items in the refrigerator -- a small fresh turkey, a bag of fresh cranberries for sauce, a few six-packs of beer. The last hadn't actually been on the list, but House figured it was meant to be. Deciding laziness was the better part of teasing Wilson, he left the rest of the items on the kitchen counter; if Wilson bitched, he'd tell him that if he was going to cook he'd need them close by. 

Suddenly tired from the excursion, he limped back into the den and sat down on the sofa. Leaning forward to unkink the muscles in his lower back, he dry-swallowed a Vicodin and reached for his backpack, emptying the day's mail onto the coffeetable.

Junk mail, medical journals, a bank statement, _National Geographic_ , a cellphone bill ... a postcard. It landed, photo-side up, on top of the new issue of _The Lancet,_ and House stared at it, hypnotized.

He recognized the photograph immediately. It was Princeton University.

************

For a long time, he simply sat, gazing into space as the room slowly darkened and the shadows gathered. It was dusk before he finally leaned forward and picked up the postcard, and even then, he waited before turning it over.

Handwriting, in bold black strokes across the back of the card. _His_ handwriting.

He took a deep breath and began to read.

_Dr. House, I presume! Or should I say: myself, I presume! Couldn't find Einstein stamp so Twilight Zone guy will do. More appropriate anyway, hope you know who he is. Hell, hope you know who Einstein is. Doesn't matter because I don't know how this works or if this will reach you. Wish we could meet but universe(s) wd probably explode. Anyway, thanks. For everything. House._

_P.S. Take care of your Wilson. They're one-of-a-kind._

House held the postcard in his hand, gently touching one finger to the stamp. Rod Serling was looking away to one side, as if seeing something in the distance. The postmark appeared odd, and he brought the card closer to his eyes. It took him a moment to notice the difference -- "Princeton, NN," instead of "Princeton, NJ." He glanced at the photo description; it was bilingual, the English sentences followed by a Dutch translation. _Chartered in 1746 as the College of New Netherlands, Princeton simultaneously strives to be one of the leading research universities --_

He stopped reading, and sat for a moment longer. At last he rose, still holding the card, and limped slowly into his bedroom. Lowering himself painfully to the floor, he used his cane to pull his old wooden chest out from under the bed. He brushed the dust off the lid and opened it, barely glancing at the contents. He laid the last postcard inside, on top of the others, and closed it again, shoving the box back under the bed.

On the way back into the den, he paused for a second, certain he had seen someone sitting at his piano, but it was only the shadows in the corner.

He turned on the lights and sat back down on the sofa, looking at his watch. 6:45. Wilson would be here soon. He settled back to wait for his friend.

 

~ The End


End file.
